


Steam Heat

by Lokei



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-02
Updated: 2007-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A confrontation in the caldarium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steam Heat

**Author's Note:**

> How does that knight stay so squeaky clean? And I do not mean the state of his morals. Adoration and much credit to Romanticalgirl for the stunningly helpful beta.

“Somehow I never expected to find you in such a Roman institution,” her mocking voice floated ahead of her as the steam in the caldarium parted around her wraithlike form as she paused to examine the object of her address.

He was stretched out languidly on one of the benches, modesty preserved by a linen towel slung low on his hips. His skin glistened with sweat and the last traces of oil left in the wake of the scraping hook. His hazel eyes took her in with thinly veiled amusement beneath the wild tousle of damp black hair.

“The only two things worth anything across the vast Roman Empire are Roman roads and Roman baths, and not necessarily in that order,” Lancelot drawled, unperturbed.

She arched an eyebrow and he sat up slightly under her inquisitive gaze, scarred muscles flexing across his shoulders. “If it’s Arthur you’re seeking, he preferred absolution to ablutions this evening.”

She said nothing and Lancelot shot her a knowing glance, accompanied by that tiniest quirk to the corner of his lips which had felled plenty before her. “Not too warm in here for you, is it, Lady?”

She only smiled and made her noiseless way further into the steamed room. Lancelot stirred as if considering evading her approach and then stilled, watchful and tense as a grasslands predator. “How did you get past the servant at the door, anyway?” He asked instead, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he settled back so his weight rested on his elbows, long legs barely bent against the warm bench in an appearance of ease. “More of your Woad magic?”

Her soft laughter was his answer and his eyes narrowed as she picked up the stigil on the bench beside him and considered it for a long moment. “Trust the Romans to make bathing implements which look so uncomfortable,” she scoffed finally, setting it aside and shaking her sleeves off her thin pale arms, close enough for him to feel the brush of air from their fall.

“From what I have seen the Woads do not appear to be experts in the arts of bathing,” Lancelot shot back, sure he didn’t want to examine why he was defending something Roman to someone who appeared to hate them almost as much as he did himself. “Are you about to teach me otherwise?” And there, an invitation he had not meant to make—an overcompensation.

The palms of her hands on his shoulders were unexpectedly cold in contrast to the heat of the room and Lancelot wondered if the touch of his flesh seared hers in return.

“I had not the impression you were in need of instruction,” her voice slid across his skin like the fabric of her dress as she moved to kneel astride him, loosening the shoulder clasps of her gown so that it puddled over their hips. Her hand trailed down his chest, and he shifted his weight to free a hand and catch her tiny fingers in his own, holding them until they began to absorb some of his warmth.

“I am told that in Greece they save the scrapings of oil and sweat from the most famous athletes and sell it as ointment for the joints and muscles,” Lancelot’s eyes held her own as he let her fingers go, his tone as commonplace as if they were carrying on a conversation in the courtyard.

“Do they?” She ghosted her other hand over his shoulder, down the arm he still leaned upon. “I suppose some men will do anything for a touch of the divine.” Her eyes were bright with challenge. “And you, Lancelot?”

“I am already covered in other men’s blood. I have no need of their sweat.” He didn’t like the knowledge in her eyes and so ran his free hand up her thigh to her hip, curling his swordsman’s hand around her waist with practiced ease. He let it stay there, heavy against her thin bones with the weight of suggestion, pressing her closer. “I find divinity in other places.”

“Like other men’s women?”

Muscles trained to the rhythm of parry and riposte, Lancelot’s fingers tightened their grip and his tongue was acid. “If they wish it. I am sworn to serve.”

“To serve Rome.” The statement was without inflection, but her eyes glittered dangerously with something between a question and intent.

Lancelot snorted. “Some will claim Rome is like a woman. Others like a whore. It matters not.” He shifted his hips within the frame of her legs, and the movement brought blood to her cheeks and widened her eyes just for a moment before she regained control of her expression. He smiled at the tiny triumph. “We were speaking of divinity.”

“And here I thought we were speaking of bathhouses,” she retorted, a trace of smile on her lips, “and their dubious value in comparison with Roman roads.”

Lancelot smirked and his muscles corded as he abruptly levered them around until she was the one pressed full length against the warmed wooden bench, his hands on either side of her head, daring her to move. “I assure you, the baths have many advantages entirely lacking in Roman roads.” His breath ghosted across her lips. “Perhaps it is you who are in need of instruction?”

“Enlighten me,” she raised her mouth to meet his, but it suddenly was not there, its owner having slid gracefully off the end of the bench, where he now stood, retying the towel nonchalantly about his hips.

“I think not, my lady,” his voice cut through the steamy room as sharp as broken glass. “I may be sworn to serve, but as any Roman can tell you,” Lancelot bowed ironically as he paused in the doorway, “I am very bad at taking orders.”


End file.
